


Roses are Red, Fire Is Too (The One in which Johnny Gets a Tattoo)

by pure1magination



Category: Fantastic Four, Gambit (Comic), Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: The Animated Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Crush at First Sight, Denial of Feelings, Florists, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Slow Burn, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4139592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pure1magination/pseuds/pure1magination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>inspired by this tumblr post:</p><p>killer—ink: I passed a flower shop next to a tattoo shop and at first I laughed because I thought it was ironic and then i freaked because IMAGINE YOUR OTP IN A FLORIST/TATTOO ARTIST AU<br/>songofthestarwhale: then imagine whoever would obviously be which one and switch them</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Tinkle-jangle_

Johnny knew the moment he first heard those bells, he was going to hate this job.

Of course, all sorts of other things tipped him off. It wasn’t just the cheerful sleigh bells tied to the door frame, or the permeating stench of flowers the second he walked in. No, Johnny had known since the second Peter said Aunt May could use a little extra help at ‘Flowers Divine’, he was going to take the job, and he was going to loathe every moment of it.

Peter practically dropped his broom in the rush to escort Johnny into the building. “You’re here!” Peter enthused. He leaned his broom up against a window and grabbed one of Johnny’s hands between both of his, grinning. “Aunt May is in the back. C’mon!”

Johnny wasn’t given much room for argument; Peter dragged him there like a puppy taking its owner for a surprise run.

“Aunt May!” Peter yelled, the wooden door to the back room swinging behind them.

The elderly woman in question raised her head from where she was bent over, holding a pair of clippers. “Yes, Peter, what is it?” Her eyes landed on “Johnny!” Her face softened into a warm smile. She stood and dusted her gloved hands on her overalls, adding more dirt to the huge brown spots on her thighs. She took off one glove and held out her hand for Johnny to shake.

Johnny couldn’t hold back a cringe as he automatically reached out to grasp her hand.

“Peter said you might drop by,” Aunt May informed him, releasing his hand.

Johnny yanked his hand away like she’d burned it.

Aunt May continued, “It’s been difficult, since we lost Gwen…”

Peter shuffled. His face fell, gaze to the ground.

Aunt May shot Peter a sympathetic look before continuing, “Peter wasn’t ready for another co-worker, and I understand that, but I have a business to run. It’s been six months, and Peter has been picking up all of her work. I understand you could use some money, as well?”

Johnny grimaced. “Yeah, well. Since Susan & Reed split, Ben kinda went his own way too, an’ I been livin’ on my own stuff, but uh.. Funds are gettin’ kinda low.” He laughed nervously.

Aunt May’s expression was both sad and sympathetic. “So sorry to hear about Susan and Reed. They were such a lovely couple.”

Johnny winced and made a so-so gesture with his hands.

“I know this isn’t the job you’ve always dreamed of,” Aunt May granted, “but it’s a good start. It will teach you hard-earned skills that you can use wherever you go. And in the meantime, you’ll be doing a favor for a friend. -I hear you are interested in race car driving?”

Johnny’s eyes lit up. “Hell yeah!”

Aunt May nodded; she’d expected this. “Well, every racer starts somewhere. Working as a mechanic, perhaps, or cleaning the cars, or maintaining the track. There are any myriad of smaller jobs that the more glamorous jobs would be helpless without. To succeed, you must start at the bottom.”

“Uh… With all due respect, I don’t see how arranging flowers is gonna make me a better racecar driver.”

Aunt May gave him one of her all-knowing smiles. “You will.”

Peter was flailing and jumping in the background. Something small and oil-colored was diving and circling around him. Johnny realized Peter was chasing a beetle. Peter clapped both hands in cup shapes around the beetle, said something into his closed hands, walked it out the back door, and set the beetle free. Johnny made a weirded-out face and wondered for like the billionth time how he wound up friends with such a weirdo.

His attention returned to Aunt May, who was still staring at him like she knew something juicy about his future. “Sooo…. does that mean I got the job?”

Aunt May’s wrinkly old face split into a grin. “You start today. -Peter? Fetch Johnny his apron.”

Peter mock-saluted his aunt and skittered off to fetch a dirty beige apron with lots and lots of pockets, and a small copy of the store logo emblazoned on the chest.

“I’m gonna have to wear a half-dress that says ‘Flowers Divine’?” Johnny whined. The curly green lettering, hugged by slender vines, could not look any less manly if it tried.

“It’s not a half-dress!” Peter objected, “It’s an apron!”

“Yeah, you keep tellin’ yourself that..”

Peter rolled his eyes. “It’ll keep your clothes from getting dirty.” He held the apron out towards Johnny.

Johnny grabbed it, with a sideways glance at Aunt May’s filthy overalls.

“C’mon, put it on already!” Peter urged. “I gotta start training you!”

 

**_Three Months_ _Later_ **

 

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?” asked the very serious young man who couldn’t weigh more than ninety pounds.

“Uh..” Johnny checked the tag. “Fourteen, plus tax. Sooo… About fifteen!”

The short blond man’s eyebrows knotted together seriously behind his black-rimmed glasses. He reached into the pocket of his skinny jeans to pull out his wallet.

Someone snickered.

Johnny glanced up to see where the noise came from, but all of the customers in the shop seemed to be contentedly browsing flowers.

The boy’s bony fingers held out a ten and a five dollar bill.

Johnny snatched the cash and put it in the register. He punched a few numbers in and handed the guy his change. “Good luck with your… Whatever.”

The short blond ducked his head and blushed. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Someone snickered again.

Johnny glanced around to see who it was. This time it was closer, but he still couldn’t tell.

“Hey!” said a guy in an obnoxious Hawaiian-print shirt. “Can you help me for a sec?”

Another blond guy with glasses. Except this guy was taller, more built, and his glasses practically had no rims. Plus he had a goatee.

Johnny made his way over. “Yeah?”

Someone snickered. Johnny glared in the general direction of the snickering. Whoever was snickering, snickered harder.

The guy with the Hawaiian-print shirt was apparently oblivious. “Which one do you think is better?” he asked, “This one, or this one?” He pointed to two bouquets.

Johnny shrugged. _I don’t care._ He pointed at one of them arbitrarily.

“Thanks, man!” the blond guy said, as though Johnny had just solved a major problem. He went to go stand in line where Peter was now manning the register.

“Wonder how long it took him to style that pompadour?” someone murmured in what was probably intended to be a voice too quiet for Johnny to hear. Someone snickered.

Another voice asked, slightly louder, “Why don’t you ask him?” followed quickly by, much louder, a guy calling- hands cupped by his mouth to amplify his voice- “Hey Tinkerbell!”

Johnny whirled around to face the guy. Some muscular jerk with black hair and a skull t-shirt was speaking. Johnny had never seen him before. “How long did you take in the bathroom this morning?”

His friend, some dudebro with a red octopus on his black shirt, was clutching his stomach and attempting to muffle his laughter.

“Oh no..” Peter mumbled in the background.

But it was too late. Johnny was standing right in front of them. Both were taller than him, and the guy with black hair was decidedly more built. Johnny’s face was red, his fists clenched. “You wanna say that to my _face?”_

The men exchanged an amused grin. The one in the skull t-shirt sneered, “Hey, I was wondering if you could help us. We’re looking for some _pansies_. Something really _soft_ and _delicate_ … -Oh wait!” His grin widened. “Looks like we already _found_ one.”

Johnny punched him in the jaw.

The guy’s friend ‘oooooooooh’ed and backed away.

The guy in the skull shirt faced Johnny with a feral smile. “You even _punch_ like a girl.”

“Don’t do it, Johnny, don’t do it,” Peter muttered in the background.

“YOU CALL _THIS_ GIRLY?!” Johnny swung another punch, and another. The rest of the customers were staring. The guy in the skull shirt kept dodging Johnny’s punches like he was nothing more than a mildly irritating bug. He kept laughing.

“C’mon,” the guy egged him on. “Hit me!”

Johnny swung and missed, swung and missed.

“...Pansy.”

“FUCK YOU!” He punched the guy square in the chest.

The guy smiled down at the fist pushed between his impressive pectoral muscles. His eyes glinted cruelly. “I think you just wanted to _touch_ me. Pansy.”

Johnny snarled and lunged at him, punching over and over, trying to hit anything and everything. He was startled by two cold hands on his shoulders, firmly pulling him back.

“That’s enough!” commanded Aunt May’s voice, behind him.

Johnny froze.

“You get _out_ of my store, and _don’t_ come back!” She glared coldly at the two men.

“Didn’t wanna go to your stupid flower store anyway,” mumbled the guy in the red octopus t-shirt. His friend muttered something about ‘liberals who protect pansy-ass faggots’ and sent a glare at Aunt May on his way out.

“Did he hurt you?” Aunt May asked, all business.

Johnny glared into the distance. “I’m not gay,” he vowed.

“We know that, Johnny,” she said in a gentler voice. “Are you all right? Do you need to take your break?”

“I’m fine!” Johnny snapped, pushing past her. “How can I help you?” he barked at a guy bent over some roses. The dude had brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.

He stood up, revealing a classically handsome face- square jaw, smooth cheekbones, cleft-fucking-chin. “Yeah, uh..” he began, cheeks turning a little pink. He scratched the back of his neck. “I had a fight with my boyfriend.. And uh. I was wondering what kind of roses were best to say.. ‘I’m sorry.’”

Well now Johnny felt like a class-A jerk. “Boyfriend,” he echoed.

The guy nodded, apparently absorbed in his own world. “Yeah, he’s the sweetest person. Real heart of gold. Got a spirit twice as big as his body, and a voice to match..” he remarked dreamily. “But uh.. Heh. He’s kinda got a temper on ‘im… And I… kinda pissed him off without meanin’ to. So, uh.. You got any flowers that say ‘I’m sorry’?”

“Uh.” _Shit, he probably thinks I’m the biggest asshole ever. Shit shit shit_ “Blue is usually good. For apologies. So’s white. Uh.. what’s his favorite color?”

“Blue.”

“Great. So uh. I’d go with blue.” Johnny’s cheeks were burning.

“...I don’t see any blue roses.” The guy looked around, befuddled. He absently went to grab his left elbow- a nervous gesture- only for both of them to realize this guy only had one arm. Where the left arm would be, his light blue-and-gray plaid cotton dress shirt was pinned up at the shoulder, presumably over the stump where his aborted limb ended.

Johnny’s entire face was bright red. “Oh! No, no, there aren’t any. Ummmm, here.” He pointed out a bouquet of baby’s breath and forget-me-nots.

The guy’s face lit up. “Forget-me-nots! Why didn’t I think of that? Those are Stevie’s favorite!”

“Uh yeah, glad I could help.” He shuffled away as quickly as he could.

And backed straight into another guy. Who looked none too happy at the moment. His rectangular face was clenched in a stern frown.

“...Can I help you?”

The dude was wearing a maroon shirt with purple pants. _Who the fuck wears those colors together?_ “I had a fight with my… Er, _girl_ friend. Charl--otte. Charlotte. H- _she_ is… impossible.”

“Well, you’ve come to the wrong guy for dating advice.”

“You’re telling _me_ ,” Peter said right behind him. “You can’t even hold down a date for one week!”

“I can hold ‘em down for one night,” Johnny countered. “That’s all I need.”

Peter walked around him and helped the guy out with some flowers.

“Johnny,” Aunt May said when Johnny attempted to walk past her. “Are you _sure_ you don’t need to take your break?”

Johnny held up his hands in a Y above his head. “I’m fine!” he insisted, bumping into a display and nearly knocking it over. He struggled to right it and got progressively pissed off because the _stupid fucking flowers_ were fucking _everywhere_ and they _wouldn’t fucking cooperate-!!_

Aunt May stilled Johnny’s arm with her cool, dry hand. “Fifteen minutes,” she ordered.

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

*

It turned out to be The Day from Hell.

One customer was dead-set on flowers they didn’t have and needed them rush-ordered, another wanted them to do _all the flowers for her wedding_ , which was _next week,_ and it seemed like, after that one douchebag came in and called Johnny Tinkerbell- as if he had anything in common with her at _all_ \- it seemed like every gay or queer guy in town was coming to them for flowers. Johnny feel like a bigger and bigger asshole.

The thing about Johnny was he _wasn’t_ gay. In fact, he leaned towards women. But there was the occasional guy he was attracted to. It just didn’t happen very often. And Johnny didn’t have anything against people who were gay; people love who they love, they fuck who they fuck, and really who the fuck cares? Just because he couldn’t personally see himself falling in love with a guy didn’t mean he had anything against people who _did._

Okay, so maybe he was a little bit of a hypocrite.

Whatever.

Johnny didn’t want to think about it anyway.

And then near the end of the day, Aunt May pulled him aside and said she “needed to talk” to him.

_Great._

And of course- of-fucking-course- she wanted to talk about his little ‘incident’ today. “This is the third time you’ve physically assaulted a customer in my shop-”

“He had it coming!”

“- _this month._ I really shouldn’t be tolerating this from you at all-”

“-wasn’t gonna just stand there and let him call me queer! I mean what the fuck is his problem-”

“-could get in legal trouble. Johnny, this really needs to stop-”

“-fucking idiot-”

“-or you’re fired.”

That shut Johnny up. “What?”

“If you can’t stop physically assaulting customers, I’m going to have to let you go.”

“But! Aunt May, you can’t! C’mon! We’re like _family!”_

“And as your ‘adoptive aunt’, and as your boss, I am putting my foot down. -Perhaps you can take yoga.”

 _“Yoga?!”_ Johnny retorted, nose wrinkled.

Aunt May shrugged. “It helped me.”

“I ain’t gonna wear some spandex pants and fucking _meditate!”_

“They’re not spandex. They’re cotton. -All right,” Aunt May cut him off before he could make further protests, “Perhaps yoga isn’t quite up your alley. Have you considered anger management classes?”

“I do _not_ need anger management classes!”

“Well clearly you need _something.”_

“I need people to not look at me and call me a fucking _faggot!”_

Aunt May steepled her fingers. “...So you need to feel tougher? Or to feel like you _look_ tougher?”

This didn’t sound horrible, so Johnny just shrugged.

“Have you ever thought of getting a tattoo?”

Johnny blinked.

“It helped me,” Aunt May added, “when I was a teenager.”

“Wait. _You_ have a tattoo?!”

Aunt May’s mouth tilted up on one side. “You don’t grow up a teenage girl in New York without learning to look tough.”

“There is a tattoo place just down the road..” Johnny found himself saying.

“Consider it,” she urged. “Consider working out, taking up a sport. Whatever you need in order to deal with this pent-up aggression.”

But Johnny wasn’t listening anymore. He was thinking about what sort of sick tattoos he could get all over his body. He was gonna look so awesome.


	2. Chapter 2

Xavier’s tattoo shop was just as gnarly inside as it was outside.

The carpet had seen better days, the mismatched furniture sucked Johnny’s body in the moment he sat down, and the desk looked like something rescued out of a dumpster. The windows were plastered with layers and layers of art, muffling the sunlight attempting to filter in.

“You gonna get a tattoo? Or are you just here for the scenery?”

Gum popped loudly.

Johnny glared at the teenager whose boots were propped up on the desk. She was wearing the most godawful yellow leather jacket, she had sunglasses propped up in her jet-black hair, and behind the bubble she was currently blowing, her lipstick was the most obnoxious shade of hot pink possible.

She flipped the page in her comic book. “Whatever. You can browse all day if you want.” She raised the comic book in front of her face a little more and muttered, “Jerk.”

Johnny loomed over the desk, fists clenched. “You got walk-ins?” he demanded.

“Yup.” She popped her gum again.

Johnny waited.

She glanced up at him. “Did you want one?”

“WHY THE FUCK DO YOU _THINK_ I’M HERE?”

“All right, _jeez._ ” She fetched her cell phone from her pocket and pressed several buttons on the touch screen. The phone case was hot pink. _What an awful color._

He was about to rip her a new one- he was really wondering how the fuck she got hired- when her phone buzzed and she swung her boots off the desk. “All right,” she said, standing, “Follow me.”

He must’ve been giving her a look, because she rolled her eyes, popped her gum, and added, “Don’t worry, bright eyes, _I’m_ not the one giving you a tattoo.” She led him down an L-shaped hallway and knocked on the door. “Here you go!” she announced, opening the door and shoving Johnny through it. Johnny barely had time to process what was happening before he found himself face-to-face with the most ‘80s-looking person he’d ever seen.

Johnny wasn’t sure what he’d expected.

Maybe an androgynous chick with a brightly dyed mohawk, black pants with half a dozen buckles, and piercings all over her face. Or a badass burly dude with sideburns and excess body hair.

But nope.

He was staring- gaping, really- at a man wearing a skintight hot pink shirt, black leggings, silver knee-high boots, and a tan leather jacket which stopped just above his ass. The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing tattoos of four aces- a red and a black on each arm- which were surrounded by swirling purple smoke and seemed to be glowing pinky-purple. The dude’s hair was reddish-brown, some of it hanging down just past his eyes, some tucked behind his ears, some pulled into a small ponytail at the nape of his neck. His long, angular chin was shaded with stubble, his lips were curled on one side in an easy smile, his cheekbones were not even in the realm of fair- like holy fuck, those things belonged on a statue- and he must be wearing colored contacts because his eyes were fucking _red._

“‘ow can Ah help ya?”

“Hi,” Johnny said blankly, taking in the unfairly chiseled nose and suavely arched eyebrows that completed this man’s ridiculously handsome face.

“Ah hear ya ahre lookin’ tuh get a tattoo,” the man purred. “Anythin’ in pahticulah?”

 _Accent. Hoooooly fuck, accent_ “Yeah.”

The man chuckled. His chiseled chest moved when he chuckled. “Such as?”

“Uhhhh.” Shit, what did he want again?

“Dere is no need tuh be nervous,” the man said soothingly. He stood next to Johnny, arms nearly touching. “Perhaps dis will refresh ya’ memory?” He held up a binder full of art.

“Yeah,” Johnny said dumbly, cheeks burning. He sat down awkwardly in the only other chair in the room and stared at the pages, head spinning. The ‘80s-looking guy sat down and resumed going through his paperwork, occasionally glancing up at Johnny. Johnny pretended to be totally focused on the book, even though he couldn’t seem to get his eyes to focus on the images.

“..You know what? I’m just.. I’m gonna come back tomorrow.” Johnny closed the binder.

“Need more tahme tuh make your decision?” The man fixed his red eyes on Johnny.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. He stood, eyes locked with those ruby red, ember red, rose red, every shade of red-- Johnny backed into the door and awkwardly reached for the handle. He belatedly turned around to open the door and stepped out.

“Come back aneh tahme,” the man called after him in a voice smoother than dark chocolate. But like, the good stuff infused with chili peppers, extra-spicy. Johnny couldn’t place that accent but it had him salivating and craving jambalaya.

“That was fast!” remarked the girl at the front desk.

Johnny didn’t respond to her, just walked out the front door in a daze and headed for the nearest Cajun restaurant.

*

“Johnny!” Peter yelled, holding five precariously balanced boxes at once. “You’re late!” He squawked as he tripped over a hose on the floor and scrambled to hold onto the boxes, only to drop most of them in the puddle at his feet.

“Yeah, sorry,” Johnny said vacantly. “Cajun place was backed up. Popular place today,” he muttered to himself, clocking in.

“You had Cajun _again?_ Dude, that’s like, the third day in a row! You got a craving or something?”

“Shut up!” Johnny slammed his card through the slot. The machine’s green light flicked on, accompanied by the mechanic ‘bip’. _Punch accepted._ Johnny threw on his apron. “It’s just really good, okay?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Johnny.”

“Johnny!” called a semi-familiar voice. “Dude, you are a _life_ saver!” proclaimed the wall of pink, red, green, and yellow Hawaiian-print as it slammed into him. Two warm arms clasped him around his back. The guy smelled like pineapples and aftershave.

“Do I know you…?” Johnny asked, shoulders stiff.

The Hawaiian-print shirt receded a couple of feet and the dude with circular glasses and the goatee grinned at him. “That bouquet was _exactly_ what I needed! Fuckin’ A, man! You just solved like, all my problems!”

Johnny backed away a step and fussed with his pompadour. “Uh… You’re welcome?”

“What can I do for you? Gift card? Take you out to dinner? Chocolate basket? Anything, man, name it! It’s yours!”

 _Dinner??_ “I’m not gay.”

“Pfft! Not like _that!_ Besides, I’m taken.” The guy grinned. “But no seriously, what can I do for you? That bouquet like, changed my life.” He stepped closer. “Do I have to give it under the table?”

Johnny was giving him a really weird look and backed away another step. “Look dude.. Congrats on your flowers? But I can’t really accept tips here…”

The guy nodded and lowered his voice, whipping out a checkbook. “You tell me what you want on this check, and I will write it.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Aunt May said, appearing not two feet away, “But we really cannot accept charity.”

The guy in the Hawaiian-print shirt sighed dramatically. “Okay. But dude?” he said to Johnny, “I seriously owe you one.” He patted Johnny on the back and whispered something about how he was an expert on computers, slipped a card into Johnny’s back pocket, patted it, winked, and exited the shop, whistling ‘Don’t Stop Believing.’

“Did you know that guy?” Peter wondered out loud.

“Someone I talked to yesterday,” Johnny said vaguely, frowning off into space.

“He made a good sale,” Aunt May said. “I expect more from you.” She gave Johnny a pointed, expectant look and disappeared through the back doors, holding a pair of clippers.

“Speaking of yesterday,” Peter began, “I saw you walking out of that tattoo shop when I was getting coffee. You got a tattoo?”

Johnny shrugged. “Maybe.”

“If you’re going for the ‘mysterious’ thing lately,” Peter warned, “it’s not working.”

“Fuck off.”

Peter followed him. “Would you at least show me your tattoo?”

Johnny kept his back to Peter and ignored him.

“C’monnnn,” Peter whined. “Why’re you hiding it?”

Much to his chagrin, Johnny felt his cheeks heat up yet again. “I didn’t get the one I wanted yet, okay?! Fuck off!”

“But you _did_ get one..”

Johnny’s cheeks heated up even more. “Yeah, it’s not like I chickened out or anything!”

“So where is it?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” Johnny started watering the sunflowers.

“Because why?”

“Because it’s none’a your business!” He squirted Peter with the hose.

Peter squawked and backed away. He stared down at the huge wet spot on his apron in dismay. Then he got this _look_ on his face--

“Don’t you dare!”

\--”Aunt May!!” Peter called, holding his apron out away from his body.

Johnny clamped a hand over Peter’s mouth.

Peter licked Johnny’s hand, causing Johnny to jerk back and shake his hand in disgust, wiping it off on every surface he could find, trying to rid himself of Peter’s saliva.

“Aunt May!” Peter called again.

“Don’t you dare, don’t you dare, don’t you _fucking_ dare!”

“What is it, Peter?”

“I DIDN’T DO IT!”

“Johnny squirted meeee!”

Aunt May crossed her arms and frowned at Johnny.

“Peter you little--!”

“Johnny,” Aunt May warned.

Peter held out his apron pitifully.

Aunt May took pity on him and untied his apron from the back. “You can wear Johnny’s apron for now.”

Johnny made a sound of protest, but was silenced by a stern look from Aunt May. He sighed.

She untied his apron and handed it to Peter. Holding out the wet apron between her thumb and forefinger, she announced, “Come with me, Johnny.”

Johnny followed her into her makeshift office. His stomach twisted into knots.

“What did I tell you about taking out your aggression in my shop?”

“I didn’t punch him! I didn’t even hurt him! I didn’t-”

Aunt May held up a hand. Her eyes snapped a warning. “No,” she granted quietly. “You didn’t hurt him. But next time, you might. What’s going on with you, Johnny? You’ve been late, you’ve been absentminded, and you’re so easily flustered. I’m worried about you.”

Johnny crossed his arms. “I’m fine!”

“...You didn’t get the tattoo, did you.”

Johnny’s arms loosened. He wondered how the fuck she knew that.

“Johnny…”

“It was _weird,_ okay?! There was this _guy,_ and he was wearing _leggings,_ and _pink-_  like, _hot pink-_  and he had this _accent,_ and--” Johnny felt his cheeks burning. He was hugging himself tightly.

“And that threatened you?”

“NO,” Johnny insisted. He wasn’t homophobic. He _wasn’t._

“Then what was the problem?”

“He just-!” Johnny squirmed. “He was _weird,_ okay?”

“You could go somewhere else…”

“NO!” Johnny went clammy all over and his heart clenched in his chest. “You want me to get a fucking tattoo? Fine! I’ll get a fucking tattoo!” He stormed out the door, straight past Peter. He ignored whatever Peter was saying, and only realized halfway down the block that he hadn’t clocked out. _Whatever._

He flung open the door to the tattoo parlour and slammed his hands on the desk, caging those stupid boots that girl was wearing between his muscular arms. “I want a tattoo.”

The girl raised her eyebrows, popped her gum, and lowered her comic book. “You got an appointment?”

Johnny clenched the desk so hard his knuckles went white. “No,” he ground out.

She popped her gum again. “I’ll let ‘im know you’re here.”

Those tense seconds waiting for the girl in the ugly yellow jacket to poke whatever-it-was into her hot pink cell phone, waiting for the cell phone to buzz, waiting for her to tap out a response, and waiting for the phone to buzz again, were absolute gut-wrenching agony.

She blew a bubble as large as her face and popped it. Unhurried, she pocketed her phone. “Says he’s busy right now, but he can see you in maybe like, five minutes.”

Johnny screamed internally.

“You can have a seat right there.” She pointed to the run-down butt-sucking cracked-leather couch.

“You _seriously_ need new furniture,” Johnny grumbled as he sat down too-hard on the couch, which pushed back at first, before sucking him in with an audible wheeze of air. He picked up the binder to distract himself, fidgeting restlessly as he flipped through it.

Curiously, though, the more he flipped through it, the less he fidgeted. He found himself genuinely compelled by the artwork inside. There was such a variety of style, and through it all, there was just this- Johnny couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but he could tell it was all drawn by the same person. He liked the sketchy pieces the best, because he felt like he could practically see the artist thinking as the lines progressed.

“Sorreh Ah took so long, mon ami,” apologized _that voice._

Johnny set the binder down on the table as though it had burned his hands. Cheeks pink, he found himself staring at the man’s skintight purple shirt, stretched tight over his chiseled torso as he leaned casually against the doorway to the L-shaped hall.

“Are you the only tattoo artist here?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Storm an’ Wolverine ahre on deir honeymoon. You’re gonna havetuh settle fo’ Gambit.”

“Great,” Johnny remarked blankly as he found himself walking towards the doorway. “You have names.”

“O’ course we ‘ave names, mon ami,” Gambit purred. “What’s yours?”

“Johnny Storm,” he replied automatically.

“Pleasuh tuh meet ya.” Gambit held out a fingerless-gloved hand, which before he knew it, Johnny had taken, and he must have forgotten how to shake, because they just stood there with their hands clasped for a long, awkward moment before Gambit squeezed Johnny’s hand. “Johnny,” he added softly. The moment he stopped squeezing, they both pulled their hands away slowly. “Follow meh.”

He led Johnny back to the same room as last time. They sat down at the same small table, knees almost touching, and Gambit asked easily “Have ya decided wha’ ya wan’ yet?”

Johnny could think of _several_ things he wanted right now, none of which made sense.

“Fo’ your tattoo?” Gambit added, red eyes glinting.

“Flames.” He was staring but he couldn’t stop. _I mean, who the fuck thinks purple is an acceptable fashion choice?_ _And with_ leggings? _And_ go-go _boots?!_ “On my arms.” He gestured all up and down the outside of his arms. “Like. Flame sleeves, all over both arms.”

“Is dere a pahticulah reason fo’ dat?”

“Uh. Well, back when I had time for it, I was a street performer. Went by ‘The Human Torch.’ I still do luaus and stuff, during the summer. I just. I’ve always really liked.. fire.” _Stop staring at his chest, Stop staring at his mouth, No, Don’t look there either!_

“Hmmm,” Gambit purred. “So ‘ave Ah. Bit of a pyro, mahself.”

“Yeah?”

Gambit nodded. “Fourt’ o’ Julah, Ah always set off mah own fiyahworks. Homemade.”

“Get out! You make _homemade_ fireworks?!”

“Ah coul’ show ya, if ya wan’.”

“Hell yes I want! Holy shit! That’s so cool!”

Gambit chuckled. Even his chuckle was like the audible version of molten dark chocolate. “Ah coul’ even teach ya a trick o’ two, if ya’ interested…” Those red eyes glinted.

“Fuck yes!”

“An’ maybeh ya could show _meh_ a trick o’ two…”

“What, me?” Johnny laughed, but the laugh came out oddly. “I mean, yeah, I’m pretty talented, but shit! I don’t make my own fireworks! That’s like, a whole ‘nother level of awesome!”

“Jus’ because Ah make fahreworks doesn’ mean Ah’m de expert on pyrotechnics.”

“Does too!”

Gambit’s mouth flickered into a smug smile. “If ya insist.”

Johnny didn’t realize, until he felt the edge pressing just under his ribcage, just how close they were leaning across that table. Those hypnotic red eyes were only maybe half a foot away.

Johnny backed away like he’d been stung and fussed unnecessarily with his outfit, plucking at wrinkles that weren’t there, and avoiding eye contact. “So uh. Yeah. ..Tattoo.”

“Ya wan’ flames all up an’ down your arms?” Gambit inquired smoothly, unphased by the change in subject.

The thought of Gambit touching ‘all up and down his arms’ had the hairs on Johnny’s arms standing straight out in anticipation. “Yeah.”

“Ya do know tha’s gonna hurt a lot? Per’aps we shoul’ give ya a smallah tattoo somewhere less obvious firs’, tuh tes’ ou’ ya’ pain tolerance.”

“Pfff, no. I’ll be fine.” His cheeks were burning under that steady gaze.

“Ah ‘ave no doub’ you’ll be fahne,” Gambit soothed, “but ya ahre gonna be in de chair fo’ at least two hours tuh get de flame sleeves done. If ya nevah ‘ad a tattoo before, dat can be excruciatin’.”

“You think I can’t take it?”

“Ya can take it,” Gambit soothed, “but don’ ya wan’ tuh build up tuh it first?”

Johnny felt like he’d just chugged a mug of hot chocolate. “Oh. Uh… Well.” He swallowed the saliva inexplicably gathering in his mouth. “That.. could work, I guess.”

“Is dere anythin’ else ya were t’inkin’ o’ gettin’?”

“Uh… Well.” He cleared his throat. “There’s this-- okay, so, when I was a street performer, I was part of this group. We called ourselves the Fantastic Four. -I know, cheesy, right? -Anyway. My sister had this boyfriend. He was a magician. Called himself Mister Fantastic.” He pronounced the name with distaste. “My sister was his assistant. Because he made her ‘disappear’ so much, they called her The Invisible Woman. And I had this other friend, Ben, who was build like a brick house and basically indestructible. He was our strong man. Called himself The Thing. We had a pretty cool gig going on at the Renaissance Festival for a while there. Did some stuff touring, all around the country. Lots of fun. Anyway- our symbol was this number four, in a circle. Like-” He drew the 4 in the air and circled it. “-Right there.” He traced a circle on his chest.

Gambit watched Johnny’s finger. Their eyes met. “Ah coul’ get tha’ done tomorrow,” he offered. “Ah’m afaid Ah ‘ave a two o’clock appointment dis aftahnoon, an’ dere wouldn’ be enough tahme before den.”

“Yeah, I can… I can do that.” Johnny swallowed again.

“In de meantahme..” Gambit produced a packet of papers from beneath his desk and set it on the table between them. “Ah’m gonna need ya tuh fill dis ou’. ‘s jus’ a fohmality, really. Lettin’ meh know dat ya don’ ‘ave any medical problems o’ anyt’ing lahke anemia dat woul’ affec’ gettin’ a tattoo.”

“Uh. Okay, yeah, sure..” Johnny glanced around the table, eyebrows furrowed.

Gambit calmly handed him a pen.

“..Right.” Johnny scanned the papers and tried very hard to concentrate on them. Every three words or so, he found himself staring at Gambit’s mouth again. Or Gambit’s neck, Gambit’s hands, Gambit’s red, red eyes…

Gambit raised his eyebrows. “Got a question, mon ami?”

Johnny jolted and stared determinedly at the paperwork. “Nope!” He tried very hard to read it, but wasn’t absorbing a single word.

He was relieved when he made it to a checklist and all he had to do was say ‘no’ to everything. _Not pregnant, not_ planning _on getting pregnant, no sickle cells, no anemia…_

He finished signing and initialling all the places he was supposed to sign and initial and awkwardly set the paperwork down.  
Gambit checked the time. “Mah two o’ clock’s gonna be here aneh second. -You done?”

“Yeah.”

“Excellent. Jus’ set dat dere, Ah’ll file it latah. Ya ahre free tuh go.” He met Johnny’s eyes again.

“Yeah.” Johnny stood, feeling a little.. dizzy. “Yeah, okay. See ya tomorrow.”

Gambit’s answering ‘see ya’ warmed Johnny’s back.


	3. Chapter 3

It only occurred belatedly to Johnny that he’d scheduled his tattoo appointment during his shift. Fortunately, Aunt May was willing to allow this, provided Johnny cover one of Peter’s shifts to make up for it.

Johnny was practically vibrating with anticipation when he stepped into Xavier’s again. He only half-listened to the teen receptionist at the front desk. Whatever she was saying went in one ear and out the other.

The person he was _really_ here for appeared moments later, sauntering down the hallway, drying off his hands on a paper towel. “Ya actually showed up this tahme.”

Johnny snorted. “‘Course I did.” He puffed his chest out and jutted up his chin. “Why would I want to miss this?”

Gambit shrugged one shoulder easily and tossed the paper towel into a wastebasket. “Same reason ya missed it las’ tahme.”

“We didn’t have an _appointment_ last time.” Johnny shoved past him and took a few bold steps, realizing belatedly that he had no idea where he was going.

“Goin’ somewhere, homme?” Gambit asked, amused, trailing behind.

“Just wanna get this over with,” Johnny bluffed.

“Uh huh. Well den, ya might wan’ tuh step intuh de room where Ah’m gonna be doin’ your tattoo.” Gambit indicated a room by pointing with his thumb.

And of course. Of _course_ Johnny had passed it. “..I was just testing you.”

“Mmhmm,” Gambit granted doubtfully, following Johnny into the room. “If you’ll jes’ have a seat in dis chair..” He indicated a chair that was pretty reminiscent of a dentist’s chair. In fact, if Johnny didn’t know any better, he’d say it was a dentist’s chair.

“Take off your shirt.”

Johnny whirled around, face hot. “What?!”

Gambit raised an eyebrow. He was leaning against the counter in a way that exaggerated his perfect butt. The man looked _way_ too good in leggings. “Ah can’t tattoo ya through your shirt, mon ami.”

“Oh.” Johnny caught himself staring at Gambit’s broad shoulders. “Right.” He leaned forward and grabbed the bottom of his shirt. _No big deal. Tons of people have seen me shirtless._ Johnny recounted several of the hundreds of girls he’d slept with that had seen him nude. All the guys he’d changed with in the locker room who hadn’t given a fuck. Hell, he _performed_ shirtless half the time. This was nothing.

“De firs’ t’ing Ah’m gonna do,” Gambit explained in his molten-chocolate voice, “is draw de tattoo on wit’ markah, so ya can tell meh if dat’s wha’ ya had in mahnd.”

Made sense. Johnny nodded.

But then Gambit was leaning over Johnny, nose inches from his chest, one hand splayed across Johnny’s chest to keep his balance, the other holding a marker. Red eyes intent with concentration, Gambit traced a circle on Johnny’s chest. The moment that cool, wet tip made contact with his skin, Johnny jumped. Gambit’s eyes flickered up to meet Johnny’s, then back down to his chest. Once he was done with the circle, he drew back and asked, “Abou’ dat size, mon ami?”

Johnny glanced down at the circle on his chest. He really didn’t care at this point whether it was the right size. Seemed about right. “Yeah..”

“All righ’.” Gambit slowly traced another circle, then set about tracing the straight lines of the 4. Just when Johnny had relaxed under the cool caress of the marker, Gambit took the marker away and capped it. “Dat wha’ ya were t’inkin of, mon ami?”

Johnny glanced down at his chest, which now bore a perfect replica of the 4 he used to wear. “Wow! Yeah. That’s.. That’s... _perfect,_ actually.”

“All righ’. Dis is gonna feel a little strange, so bear wit’ meh. Ah gotta prep ya wit’ an antiseptic.” Gambit spread this weird-smelling stuff on Johnny’s chest that turned yellow. It smelled vaguely like hospital.

“Now dis is de painful paht. Ah’m gonna outline de numbah wit’ a tattoo gun. You’re gonna experience some mild-tuh-moderate pain, kinda lahke repeated papahcuts in de same place. Ah won’ judge ya if ya wanna back ou’.”

Johnny clenched his jaw and jutted out his chin. “Ain’t _no_ way I’m pussying out.”

“Cats can be vereh brave,” Gambit deadpanned. The tattoo gun buzzed to life. “An’ if ya ahre gonna use derogatory slang tuh insult women in mah presence, ya ahre gonna find yourself gettin’ de mos’ painful tattoo experience Ah can provahde.”

“No no no!” Johnny backpedaled. “I just meant. You know. I ain’t- I ain’t a sissy, I- OW!”

“Homophobic slurs will also not be tolahrated.”

“JEEZ! Okay!”

“People love who dey love,” Gambit stated calmly as he traced a line of fire up Johnny’s pectoral. “Men, women, in-between, both, neithah. Doesn’ mattah. People is people, an’ dose who judge, Ah find, ahre usually dose afraid o’ lovin’ who dey love.”

“What, so you’re saying I’m secretly gay?”

“If dat’s wha’ you’re afraid of? Mebbe.”

“I am _not_ gay.”

“If ya say so,” Gambit granted non-committally.

“I’m not!”

“Ah’m not arguin’.”

“Yes you are! I’m not gay! I’ve slept with so many women. Hundreds of women! Thousands maybe! I don’t know, I stopped counting after I hit three hundred.”

Gambit let out an unimpressed hum. He traced the outer diagonal of the 4.

“I have!” Johnny insisted. “And they all _loved_ it. And so did I! Jeez! I wouldn’t sleep with all those women if I wasn’t attracted to ‘em! Women are hot. Well, some women. -A lot of women, okay? Skinny ones, curvy ones, blond, brunette, redhead- nerdy, sporty, goth, prep- doesn’t matter. I like ‘em all sorts’a shapes and sizes.”

Gambit released another unimpressed nasal sound and traced the horizontal line of the 4.

“I do!” Johnny insisted.

“Nevah said ya didn’.”

“Well I do.” The silence, combined with the constant buzz and burn of the tattoo gun, was driving Johnny crazy. “I mean, okay, yeah, maybe there is the _occasional_ guy that I’ll admit is hot, but come on, I’m not blind! _Anyone_ would admit he was hot! Like-- Like young Harrison Ford. Come _on._ _Who_ is gonna look at young Harrison Ford and say ‘no thank you’?”

Gambit smirked, but didn’t answer. Just kept tracing the lines of the 4.

“-Not that I ever thought of _doing_ anything with him! Euch! I was just. You know. _Noticing._ Ain’t no harm in noticing. A guy can notice another guy is hot without it being gay.”

“Ya do know dere is dis t’ing called ‘bisexuality’ righ’?”

“Well yeah. _Duh._ But isn’t that just, people who are so desperate to get laid, they’ll take anything they can ge-OW!!”

“No,” Gambit answered firmly, “It doesn’t. Some people lahke coffee, some people lahke tea. Some people lahke tea _an’_ coffee.”

“Yeah but people aren’t drinks tho-OW!! Oh come on! I didn’t even _say_ anything that time!”

“It’s an _analogy._ Bein’ attracted tuh more den one gendah ain’t that diff’rent den enjoyin’ more dan one drink, or more dan one dessert. Cake an’ pie. Coffee an’ tea. It’s possible tuh enjoy more dan one t’ing.”

“Okay, fine. Granted. You can like different foods,” Johnny forced out through clenched teeth. “But people are different. I can eat all the different desserts I want, it doesn’t mean I’m attracted to anyone besides women.”

“Ya ahre misconstruin’ de meanin’ o’ mah message. Dere are men who love men. An’ dere are men who love women. Well, guess what? _Sometahmes_ men lahke men _an'_  women. And othah gendahs besides. _Sometahmes,_ ” Gambit stressed as he started on the inner circle, “Gendah doesn’ mattah as much as de _person,_ an’ someone is attracted to de _personality,_ doesn’ _care_ wha’ variety o’ genitals dis person ‘as, will be content wit’ whatevah dey have down dere, because compared wit’ de _person,_ de genitals ahre really secondary. Wha’ _mattahs_ is bein’ wit’ someone who values dem as a person, an’ loves dem fo’ _who dey ahre,_ an’ doesn’ trah tuh force dem tuh be someone dey ain’t!”

“You, uh. Speakin’ from personal experience there? -OW!!”

“Sorreh. Dat one wasn’ intentional.” Gambit eased his angle a bit and continued tracing the circle. “Who Ah’m attracted tuh is _mah_ business, homme. Wha’ Ah’m tryin’ tuh get ya tuh understan’ is dat dere is more out dere dan just gay an’ straight. Dere is more out dere dan jus’ men an’ women. An’ ya gotta respec’ that.”

“Ah do-- I mean, I _do!”_

“Well is shore don’ soun’ lahke it.”

Johnny held up one hand with three fingers up. “Scout’s honor.”

Gambit raised an eyebrow. “Ya ahre aware dat de boyscouts ahre one of de mos’ heteronormative, homophobic, sexist, conservative groups in de country?”

“...Girlscouts’ honor?”

Gambit’s eyebrow notched up farther. “ _You_ were in _girl_ scouts.”

Johnny sighed. “Okay, no. I wasn’t in girlscouts. But I _did_ eat a lot of girlscout cookies. Does that count for anything?”

“Hmmm,” Gambit hummed. He finished tracing the big circle and started on the little one. “It’s a staht.”

“So…” Johnny couldn’t help wondering out loud. “You are attracted to people, regardless of gender?”

Gambit’s eyes flickered up to meet Johnny’s for a moment, but he remained silent.

Johnny’s heart did a weird little flip-flop. “If you don’t answer me, I’m gonna take that as a yes.”

Gambit concentrated on the tattoo. “None’a your business, homme.”

“You haven’t said ‘no’ yet,” Johnny pointed out.

Gambit grunted.

“You _are,_ aren’t you!” This revelation sent a weird little thrill through Johnny’s bloodstream.

“Now dat de outlahne is done,” Gambit explained, instead of answering Johnny’s question, “Ah’m gonna fill in de colour. Wha’ colour woul’ ya lahke?”

“C’mon man, answer me! It ain’t nothin’ tuh be ashamed of..”

“If ya don’ pick, Ah’m gonna go wit’ black.”

“Yeah, yeah, black is fine, but _do_ you?”

“Do Ah what.”

 _“Do_ you like guys and girls?”

“Ah tol’ ya, it’s none’a your business.” Gambit locked eyes with Johnny, his gaze like molten lava cascading over an army of naked statues. “Unless ya ahre _interested.”_

Heat rushed to all the wrong places. “Whoa! No! no! Dude! I’m not gay!”

“Already tol’ ya,” Gambit reiterated as he set up his next tool, “Ya don’ have tuh be gay tuh be attracted tuh men.”

“Well I’m not!”

“Jus’ young Harrison Ford.”

“I am not _attracted_ to him!” Johnny’s cheeks burned.

“So if he wanted tuh change in front’a ya, ya wouldn’ mind? If he wanted tuh go swimmin’ wit’ ya an’ showah next tuh ya in de community showah aftah, ya wouldn’ look?”

Well, _those_ mental images were burned into Johnny’s mind forever. _Thanks for that._

Gambit started shading in the 4. The initial feeling was a shock, but Gambit kept talking. His voice was infinitely more distracting than the pain from the tattoo. “If young Harrison Ford was eyein’ you up in de showah an’ offered tuh wash your back, ya wouldn’ take him up on dat?”

“Well, I mean, if he’s _offering…_ ” Johnny watched the color fill in the outlines of the 4. “My back _is_ kinda hard to reach, especially since I started working out…”

“An’ if his hands got a little.. _sensual,_ ” Gambit said, circling his thumb maddeningly between Johnny’s pecs, “..If he caressed your back wit’ dose wahm, lahge hands o’ his.. ya’d back away? Or would ya tell him tuh keep goin’?”

“Keep going,” Johnny whispered, eyes fluttering shut. The tattoo burned, as did the skin under Gambit’s hand, splayed there for balance, the thumb tracing wider and slower circles across his skin.

Gambit’s voice continued, low and intimate. “If he trailed his hand down the centah o’ your back… Wahm, slick wit’ soap… An’ reached aroun’ de front a’ you… Stahted caressin’ your stomach… Would ya tell him tuh stop?” His hand slid a little lower on Johnny’s chest.

Johnny let out a quiet moan. He didn’t have the brain capacity to fight this at the moment. All his blood was pulsing somewhere else.

“See?” Gambit murmured. “Ya wouldn’ mind _him_ doin’ it… So who’s tuh say dere isn’ de occasional guy ya wouldn’ mahnd doin’ dat wit’?”

“I’m not gay,” Johnny protested weakly.

“O’ course you’re not,” Gambit soothed. “But ya _might_ be bi.”

Johnny slowly lolled his head back and forth in a dizzy ‘no.’

“Non?” Gambit trailed his hand lower, thumb brushing back and forth across Johnny’s abs.

“Please,” Johnny whispered, barely audible.

“Please wha’?”

Johnny tilted his head back dizzily. The room was spinning and he was floating, and he didn’t even know what he was asking for, he just _wanted_ it.

“All done,” Gambit said softly.

Slowly, Johnny opened his eyes and raised his head to look at his chest. The 4 couldn’t be more perfect. It was exactly like he’d imagined.

He felt an immediate loss when Gambit stood and turned away from him. “Now Ah’m gonna wrap dat in plastic.” He gently rubbed a gel-like substance onto the freshly tattoed area. “Protection is impohtant.” His eyes fucking _smoldered_ when he said that.

Gambit covered Johnny’s tattoo in plastic wrap as he spoke. “Fo’ de nex’ few hoahs, do not remove dis plastic. Once ya do, ya need tuh wash an’ moisturize de area at _leas_ ’ once a day. Twice a day at firs’. De skin is gonna peel a bit, don’ worry abou’ tha’, jus’ keep rubbin’ dis on it.” Gambit handed Johnny a small tub of gel-like stuff. “An’ if ya have any questions..” Gambit handed him a card with a ten-digit number printed on it. “Ya can text or call meh aneh tahme a’ day.”

_Holy shit I have his phone number._

“Okay.” Johnny stood in a daze and made his way to the door.

“Johnny?”

Heart in his throat, Johnny turned around.

“Ya migh’ wan’ tuh wear your shirt.”

For a moment, Johnny stared at him blankly. Then he realized Gambit had picked up his shirt and was holding it out to him.

“Right.” Johnny awkwardly shimmied into his shirt, which was suddenly really weird with Gambit watching. “Uh.. Seeya.”

He nearly made it out the front door before the kid at the front desk stopped him with her loud voice and told him he had to pay.

*

Couples danced in slow-motion to an ‘80s love song where the singer said ‘Yes’ a lot as the credits to _Dirty Dancing_ scrolled across the screen.

Johnny was sprawled across his couch in red plaid pajama pants and a black undershirt. A nearly-empty styrofoam container sat on his endtable, containing the remains of leftover jambalaya. His fork was clutched absently in his right hand, his eyebrows drawn together, and it was only when his phone buzzed to notify him one of his games had updated that he realized it was nearly three a.m.

He swiped the screen, which took him to the screen he’d had open for hours: Gambit. He’d already assigned him a picture of an ace of diamonds as his contact photo, and given him ‘Another Tattoo’ by “Weird Al” Yankovic as a ringtone.

As if he was ever going to _hear_ that ringtone.

The music faded. The screen went black.

Johnny reached for the remote and turned off the television.

Gambit was just a really cool guy. With.. really weird taste in clothing.

A really cool guy made _fireworks._

Johnny stood up and stretched. Immediately, he was met with a burning sensation when the tattoo scraped against the scoop neck of his undershirt. Johnny clutched his chest, which only caused him _more_ pain, so he let go. He was about to take off the shirt when he realized he’d have to let the tattoo touch his blankets. And his bed.

Shit. His tattoo was gonna be touching stuff _all night._

[How do you sleep?] *send*

He only realized after he’d sent the text to Gambit that this was probably a weird thing to say, and he faced about two and a half minutes of sheer panic wondering what to say in order to clarify that message so he didn’t sound like a total weirdo when his phone ping’d. Heart jammed in his throat, he swiped the screen.

[ _A better question is, when? Who is this?_ ]

Shit.

[Johnny Storm] *send*

ping!

[ _Ahh. The tattoo is making it hard to sleep?_ ]

[Yeah.]

[ _Try wearing a soft cotton t-shirt._ ]

Johnny smacked his forehead. He wondered why the fuck _he_ didn’t think of that.

Five minutes later, he was wearing a soft cotton t-shirt and brushing his teeth when his phone ping’d again.

[ _Don’t forget to moisturize._ ]

If a feeling could be described as cottonwood seeds floating on the breeze, on a summer day, in full sunlight, that is the emotion Johnny was feeling that moment. He finished brushing his teeth and smiled when his phone ping’d a minute later, to remind him he had a text.

He swiped the screen and stared at it until the screen timed out and went black.

He padded to his bedroom and turned off the light, climbed between the sheets, plugged his phone into its charger, and opened the screen again.

[I won’t]

[Forget, that is. I won’t forget.]

He waited a few minutes, tapping the screen whenever it faded, but upon receiving no further response, eyes drooping, he set his phone on his nightstand, rolled onto his side, and fell asleep hugging his pillow.

The text [ _Did the t-shirt help?_ ] waited for him to answer in the morning.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Johnny knew he wasn’t supposed to answer his phone during his shift, but when he felt that familiar buzz in his pocket, he _had_ to check.

A goofy little smile crossed his face. He rolled his eyes and typed back a response.

He kept his head up and approached as many customers as he could. His smile was bright, his advice genuinely helpful.

“Aw man, don’t do red roses for a first date. Too much pressure. Yeah, I’d go with carnations. Maybe just one carnation. Pink, so she knows you think she’s cute, but not red unless you think it’s gonna be something serious. If you don’t know yet, I’d go with pink.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss. Yes, we have lilies. -Did the deceased have a favorite flower? -Yes, I understand. -Yeah. -Yeah. -I know this is hard for you. Here, how about we throw in a few soft pinks and yellows, just to brighten up the gloom a bit? Remind you of their life? -Of course. Thank you for trusting us. They’ll be ready by Thursday.”

“Yes, Mrs. Jenkins, we do have flats of petunias. In fact, we just got a shipment in today, if you’d like fresh ones. -Red, pink, and purple, got it.” He grinned. “Anything for our favorite customer.”

He was watering the dyed daisies near the front when his phone buzzed again. He hurried his arc of water, wiped his hands quickly on his apron, and took out his phone. He was still staring at the text when Aunt May’s voice broke his concentration. “You’re doing very well today.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. Thanks, Aunt May.” Johnny tapped out a response, chest light. He felt a little like he had a disco ball spinning over an empty multi-colored dance floor in his head.

Her fingers blocked the screen. “No phones at work, Johnny.”

“But Aunt May-!” He pouted.

“No buts! Put that away.” Her all-knowing eyes snapped a warning.

Johnny sighed, rolled his eyes, and pocketed his phone. It buzzed.

As soon as Aunt May was out of sight, he took his phone out again.

And so the day progressed. Johnny kept half an eye out for Aunt May, chatted up the customers, favored several women with his most charming smile, and every time his phone buzzed, he answered it as soon as possible.

He took his lunch early and had his phone out the entire time, texting back and forth between bites of his sandwich, which he could only eat half of on account of the butterflies crowding his stomach.

[What?! You’ve never seen ‘Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls?’ Dude that’s a classic!]

ping!

[ _Non, mon ami. I can’t say I have._ ]

[Dude you *have* to watch it sometime. It’s the best.]

[ _Only if you watch the Pirates of the Caribbean_ ]

[Not fair! That’s four movies! That means *you* have to watch three more movies with Jim Carrey.]

[ _I don’t *have* to do anything, mon ami._ ]

[But Jim Carrey!]

[ _He’s a little overrated._ ]

[OVER RATED?!?!!!?!]

[ _His comedies are all pretty similar…_ ]

[No no no no no. Jim Carrey is such a versatile actor. Like you have no idea. You cannot watch The Mask and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and tell me those are the same character. The plots are way different. The characters. The-- Everything.]

[ _..You saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?_ ]

[ _How was it?_ ]

Johnny backspaced his defensive response. [Not as funny as I thought it would be.]

[ _LOL_ ]

[No, I said it’s *not* funny. Stop laughing.]

[ _I was thinking about seeing that one… I liked Kate Winslet in Titanic._ ]

[Oh dude no. Titanic? That’s such a chick flick!]

[ _It’s not a chick flick. It’s a historical flick. The fact that it centers around a romantic plot does not mean its target audience was solely women. And even if it was targeted towards women, that says very little about the quality of the film._ ]

[So you like chick flicks]

[ _I enjoy good films, yes._ ]

Johnny was still trying to formulate a response when Gambit replied again.

[ _Have you ever seen The Princess Bride?_ ]

[Ew, no! That sounds like. The chick flick to end all chick flicks.]

[ _You are missing out._ ]

[Story about some princess who wants to get married? Isn’t that every Disney film ever?]

[ _She’s not a princess, and yes, she does want to get married at one point, but it’s not what you think. It’s a comedy._ ]

[A *romantic* comedy. You’re not gonna trick me, man.]

[ _Yes, it’s a romantic comedy. With sword-fighting, and pirates, and puns, and a snotty little kid who sounds a lot like you._ ]

[Is that supposed to be some sort of compliment?]

[ _No_ ]

“Who’re you texting?”

Johnny blushed and hid his phone under the table. “No one!”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Uh-huh. Suuuure.” He plopped down across the table and set down his lunch bag. “So you’ve been texting ‘no one’ all day?”

“NO! -Yes? ..Maybe? None’a your business!”

His phone buzzed.

“And this ‘no one’,” Peter continued, taking out his sandwich, “is also not the reason you’re blushing right now.” He casually took a bite and shoved the food in one cheek so he could talk around it. “And _not_ the person Aunt May yelled at you for texting.”

“NO,” Johnny insisted. He was dying to know what Gambit had said. His phone buzzed again; he couldn’t tell if it was another text, or a reminder for the one he hadn’t seen yet.

“Mmhmm,” Peter agreed sarcastically. “And I’m gonna hazard a guess that this ‘no one’ _also_ has nothing to do with why you’ve been so friendly and helpful today.”

“..I have?”

Peter muffled a laugh. “Wow, you’ve got it _bad.”_

“Got what? What’re you talking about??”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Wow.”

“What!”

Peter shook his head. “Just wow.” When he stopped shaking his head, he remarked, “This is a new level of pathetic, Johnny.”

“I am _not_ pathetic!!”

“Yes you are! So who’s the girl?”

Johnny frowned. “What girl?”

“The girl you’ve been texting!”

Johnny’s frown froze on his face. His stomach twisted oddly. His phone buzzed again. “..It’s not like that.” He glanced down at the phone, trying to get a glimpse of the screen between his thighs.

 _“Suuuuuuure_ it’s not.”

“It’s _not!”_

“...You keep telling yourself that, Johnny,” Peter said as he took another bite of his sandwich, and Johnny couldn’t stand the suspense anymore.

[ _I have half a mind to watch it with you, just to watch you see how wrong you are._ ]

[ _Was that too forward?_ ]

The weird tingly feelings were back. He found himself in a sudden daydream, just him and Gambit, sitting side-by-side on a rickety old couch, like the shitty ones in the waiting room, sunk down in the middle, their shoulders pressed together, the room dark except for the glow of the screen…

He’d be able to feel Gambit’s warmth through his sleeve.

Come to think of it, Gambit’s shoulder would sit a little higher, so if Johnny wanted to, he could probably just.. Lean his head a little bit, and--

“Did ‘no one’ text you back?”

Johnny turned scarlet. “Fuck you, Peter!”

Peter grinned smugly. “You know,” he called after Johnny as he threw out his remaining sandwich-half and walked out, “You’re gonna have to face your feelings eventually!”

“FUCK OFF!” He flipped Peter the bird and answered, [No, of course not. I mean it’s not like it was an invitation or anything.]

Something invisible slammed through him when he read the response, [ _What if it was?_ ]

Dizzy, leaning against the wall, he typed back, [Wait. It was?]

[ _Apologies, mon ami. My two o’clock is here. I can’t text for about an hour._ ]

This was quickly followed by, simply, [ _Yes_ ]

*

Johnny couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when the conversation changed.

He’d answered the text first thing when he’d woken up that morning, letting Gambit know that yes, the cotton t-shirt had helped. There had been some flaking and redness that morning, and he’d asked about that. Hadn’t gotten a response until an hour into his shift.

And somehow, one comment led to another, and next thing he knew, they were talking about favorite movies.

Annnd then he was agreeing to watch a movie with him, probably just the two of them. Gambit hadn’t mentioned anyone else. And when Johnny had asked where, the ‘where’ turned out to be _‘My place’ ‘If that’s all right with you.’_ And next thing Johnny knew, he was agreeing to see him next Tuesday at seven; they were gonna meet up at a Chinese place and order food first.

They were just gonna hang out, watch a movie.

 _Peter is wrong,_ Johnny told himself furiously as he smashed the crap out of yet another car in Grand Theft Auto V. _It’s not like that._ He shot a guy unnecessarily full of bullet holes. _Gambit’s just a really cool guy._

His phone buzzed.

Johnny paused the game and practically threw down his controller to answer it.

His heart sank when he saw it was just a notification for an update on one of his games. He swiped the notification away and halfheartedly unpaused the screen. “Yeah, yeah. Hooker. Hi.” He sighed, slumped down further in the couch, shot someone halfheartedly, and about five minutes later, he decided he’d had enough of that game for the evening.

He felt weird.

Pizza.

There was nothing pizza couldn’t cure.

He went into his fridge and fetched leftovers of pizza from one of his favorite joints- barbecued chicken with an extra-spicy Cajun crust.

He poured himself a glass of soda and booted up Netflix.

He was still staring at the main screen when his microwave beeped.

For some reason, nothing really looked good.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled up through the conversation. Weird little bursts of warmth blossomed in his torso whenever he saw a movie title Gambit mentioned.

Just to be a dick, he looked up the one Disney film Gambit had claimed he hated: The Princess and the Frog. _‘Everyone thinks it’s so original to ask if I’ve seen that. I’ve had to watch it so many times, with so many people.’_

He fully intended to reference this movie as often as possible, _just_ to get on Gambit’s nerves.

Piping hot pizza in-hand, he pressed play.


	5. Chapter 5

[ _Rain check on that movie, mon ami. Something’s come up._ ]

[Dude no problem. Let me know when you’re free]

Johnny wondered for the rest of the morning why he typed that. He didn’t even _want_ to see Gambit’s shitty princess movie. No matter what way Gambit spun it, the title still included ‘Princess’ and ‘Bride,’ which were two of Johnny’s absolute least-favorite topics. The guy had even _admitted_ it was a rom-com, which was Johnny’s least-favorite genre. He’d seen maybe half a dozen rom-coms ever, all of which were only because the girl he was with at the time said ‘ohh this actor does things to me’, so Johnny had humored them.

 _Mama Mia_ was awful, _50 First Dates_ was the cheesiest piece of shit he’d ever seen, and don’t even get him started on _Clueless_.

The only mildly tolerable one had been _Not Another Teen Movie_ , because it made fun of the entire genre, and the lead actor was awesome.

Why he’d agreed to it in the first place was somewhat of a mystery to him. Maybe just to prove how much he hated rom-coms? To show this smug, suave guy that he was _wrong?_ It would, after all, have been gratifying to see the look on Gambit’s face when Johnny tore the movie to shit once it was over and explained why not only that movie, but rom-coms in general, _sucked_. They were so boring and cheesy and predictable. Nauseating. Repetitive. And with these awkward attempts at humor. Blech.

Yeah, would’ve been _really_ gratifying to explain all of this to Gambit and wipe that smug look off his face.

Except… That didn’t really ring true.

That wasn’t really the reason he’d agreed to see that movie.

Hell if Johnny knew what that reason was. It was way easier to tell himself it was because he hated rom-coms, than it was to think about it and pry at his own psyche. Johnny didn’t really do emotions. Or psychology. Those were girly topics.

But the longer his phone went without buzzing, the more he wondered.

[Busy day?]

[ _Oui_ ], Gambit answered eleven minutes later.

For some reason, his heart was pounding when he typed out his answer. [Got any free spots tomorrow?]

[ _For a tattoo? Oui, I am free until 2:30_ ]

[Awesome. I want those flame sleeves.]

[ _That’s gonna take at least two hours._ ]

[Oh no, two whole hours with *you*? That sounds awful. =P]

No response for four minutes. A sick feeling inexplicably churning in his gut, he typed, [12 sound good?]

He waited a breathless three minutes. [ _12 is fine._ ]

“The hell is up with him today?” Johnny muttered to himself as he watered the petunias.

“Sorry!” Peter answered unexpectedly, nearly dropping the top box off his stack of plant food. “Advanced Chemistry is kicking my ass.”

Now that Peter mentioned it, he was looking a little worse for the wear- pale, eyebrows knit together, bags under his eyes. “Yeah.. Chemistry sucks.”

“It doesn’t!” Peter insisted, setting down his boxes. “It really doesn’t. It’s just hard.”

Johnny shrugged. “Was never good at it.”

“Yeah, you’re really more of a physics guy.”

“Hell yeah.” Johnny grinned.

“I still think you ought to go to college and get a degree in Engineering.”

“Why bother? I’m already a grease monkey. I don’t need a sheepskin for it.”

“Yeah but maybe you could get a job--”

“I already _have_ a job.”

“--fixing race cars, or something. -Johnny, you _hate_ this job!”

“Yeah.” Johnny realized he’s over-watered a pot of daisies once it started to overflow. He moved on to the next one.

“Something bothering you?”

“Nope. Something bothering _you?”_

“Johnny,” Peter warned, “You’re deflecting again.”

“I’m not deflecting! God, you’re such a prick.”

“Well _sorry_ for being _worried_ about my closest _friend._ ”

Johnny snorted. “Closest friend? What about Harry?”

“...We’re fighting again,” Peter said quietly.

“Again?”

Johnny half-listened to Peter open up about Harry. It was so much easier to pretend to care about the drama in his friend’s life, and offer thin emotional support, than to face his own problems.

Not that he had any.

Nope.

Johnny was A-Okay.

“...And now that he’s with MJ--”

“Wait. Hold up. Harry’s dating MJ?!”

“Have you not been listening??”

“Dude yeah I’ve been listening but _what?_ He’s known you’ve liked her for like, _ever!”_

Peter shrugged one shoulder. “Well yeah. But he liked her too. And it’s only fair, I mean… He asked her out first, and she said yes, so…”

“So that’s why you’re fighting? Dude that _sucks.”_

Peter sighed and ran a hand through his already-poofed-out hair. “Yeah.”

“Dude I’m so sorry. You wanna hang out? Video games and pizza? Just like.. Crush some aliens or something?”

Peter pulled a face. “That sounds great, but… I’ve got this paper coming up, and a report I’ve gotta finish by midnight, and I just don’t have time to hang out right now. -Rain check?”

Johnny paled. That weird, sinking, sick feeling was back. “Yeah,” he answered stiffly. “Sure. Rain check.”

*

_It was just a busy day. That’s all it was, he was just having a busy day._

 

That must be the reason Johnny’s phone remained silent, why no matter how often he checked it, all he saw was the picture of Doctor Facilier grinning and holding cards, with the time calmly displayed in large numbers over his hat, and the date stated across his forehead. That’s why whenever his phone buzzed and he nearly dropped whatever he was holding in the mad scramble to answer it, his gut sank, and he either swiped away the game notification, or briefly answered the text from Peter.

He’d changed Gambit’s ringtone to ‘Almost There’ just to be a dick, but realized that was pointless because Gambit would never hear that ringtone, and the way things were going, neither would Johnny.

He watched _The Princess and the Frog_ again, just so he could memorize more references. He was gonna annoy Gambit so hard. It was gonna be great.

Except… That didn’t really ring true anymore. And he was getting this weird attachment to that stupid firefly. Their accents sounded similar. That’s about the time he figured out Gambit had a Cajun accent.

Sleep didn’t really happen that night, but it didn’t matter. He’d already called off the next day at work so he could get his flame sleeves. He ought to be really excited about that, because he’d been thinking about getting those flame sleeves since he was like, sixteen.

But all he felt was nervous.

*

“Hey, Loser,” Johnny greeted with false bravado when that incredibly ‘80s-looking guy leaned against the doorway with a skintight magenta shirt this time and avoided his eyes.

Gambit uncrossed his arms and turned around. “Follow meh,” he greeted, and led Johnny down the hall to the same room as last time.

“Shirt off,” Gambit ordered with his back turned after Johnny entered the room and had closed the door behind them.

Johnny took off his shirt, stomach churning. He sat in the tattoo-getting-chair and watched Gambit assemble his tools and take a seat beside him. “Ah see your firs’ tattoo is healin’ up nicely,” he remarked after barely a glance.

Johnny puffed out his chest a bit. “Hell yeah. The ladies love it,” he tested. Not a single woman had laid eyes on it.

Gambit grunted an affirmation without looking and said, “Gonna do your left arm first.” He took the cap off a marker and started tracing flame patterns onto Johnny’s skin.

Johnny couldn’t stand the short sentences or the grim look. “You okay, man?”

“Hard day,” he answered without glancing up, focused on tracing the flame patterns up Johnny’s arm.

“Yeah? You wanna talk about it?”

“Non.”

Johnny tilted his head back and frowned at the ceiling. “..Course not,” he said to himself. He felt the cool marker dance up his skin. His gaze kept flickering over to Gambit. Once Gambit was about halfway up his bicep, he asked, “So… How ‘bout that rain check?”

“Wha’ about it, mon ami?” he answered, again, without looking. Focused on Johnny’s arm.

“Uh.. Did you still want to do that? I mean, did you have any days free, or..”

“Busy week.”

Gambit traced flames up Johnny’s shoulder.

Johnny frowned at the ceiling again. “Of course,” he muttered to himself.

The silence was driving him crazy.

“-So how about the week after that? Got any plans?”

“Ah’m busy, homme.”

“Well I mean, so am I, I’ve got a _life._ But like. I thought you wanted to do that, I dunno.”

“Ah’d rathah not talk about it, mon ami.”

“Sure. Of course. ..Right.”

Gambit finished tracing flames up his arm and switched tools. He traced that weird anti-septic stuff all up and down Johnny’s arm, his touches gentle. Sensual, even.

“...This is gonna be a _really_ long two hours if you don’t say something.”

Gambit glanced up at him. Silently, he stood, turned around, took two steps to the counter behind him, and soon the silence was thrumming with Billy Idol. Avoiding eye contact, Gambit resumed his seat and picked up his tool.

“You know, I’ve been told I look like Billy Idol,” Johnny tried.

Gambit’s mouth twitched to one side and he made a noncommittal sound. He started at Johnny’s wrist, absently noting that “This is gonna hurt a little.” The tattoo gun buzzed to life.

Johnny sighed. His mind raced while the now-familiar fire burned a path up his arm. No matter how many times he glanced at Gambit, he always saw the same thing: face drawn in concentration, focused on his task, mouth formed into a grim line.

“...Are you mad at me or something?”

“Non. Hold still.”

Johnny sighed again. “Dude, _talk_ to me.”

“Is de music no’ loud enough?”

“The music is great. What’s up with you though? Are you just having a shitty week? Did something happen?”

“Ah said hold still.”

“I _am_ holding still!”

“Your arm keeps movin’. Unless ya wan’ crooked lines, ya gotta hol’ still.”

“Fine!” Johnny snapped. He glared at the ceiling for about five seconds before staring at Gambit again. “Are you on your period or something? -OW!”

Gambit’s eyes flashed a warning. “Ah’m no’ a trans man, so _non_ , Ah do no’ get periods. But even if Ah _was_ , periods ahre a natural paht o’ lahfe, an’ dey don’ affec’ women _neahly_ as much as de media woul’ ‘ave ya t’ink. Or at leas’ not in de way men tend tuh think. Dey’re painful, an’ dey can drain energy an’ cause cravings, bu’ they don’ make the people who ‘ave dem aneh less reasonable or aneh more emotional dan dey’d nohmally be. -Sometahmes dey do, bu’ tha’s more tuh do wit’ de pain an’ tiredness dan de hormones.”

“Why do you know so much about periods if you’ve never _had_ one? -OW!!”

“Because unlahke _some_ people, Ah actually _care_ abou’ de women in mah life, an’ abou’ women in _general.”_

“What, you’re saying I don’t care about women?”

“Ah nevah said dat, homme.”

“No but you’re kind of implying-- OW!”

“It’s de _culture_ we live in, homme. Stereotypes abou’ women ahre unfairly perpetuated. No’ jus’ women- people with disabilities, people of color, people from diff’ren’ countries, people with genetic diff’rences in general. Dere are systems of oppression in place, homme, an’ de people at de top know de _leas’_ about dese systems.”

“Yeah? And who’re the people at the top?”

“Rich white heterosexual cisgender able-bodied American-born Christian males.”

 _“That’s_ a mouthful. OW! Hey!”

 _“Listen_ tuh meh, homme! T’ink abou’ it. Who ahre de CEOs? Who is elected tuh govahment?” Gambit waited, presumably, for Johnny to think of all the CEOS and government employees he could possibly recall.

The thing was, now that he mentioned it, Gambit was totally right. “..Dude.”

“Who ahre de mos’ celebrated celebrities? Movie stahs, singahs, authors, directahs- wha’ profile do dey fit?”

“...Holy shit.”

“All o’ de people in positions o’ powah fit de same profile.”

“Whoa hang on, not _all_ of them. What about Nicki Minaj? Beyonce?”

“Do ya have _any_ idea how hahd dey had tuh figh’ tuh ge’ where dey ahre?” He paused to let his point sink in. “Yes, people who do not fi’ de profile _do_ end up in successful positions. But ovahwhelmingly, de people in positions o’ powah ahre white males. De fahthah ya fall from de American ideal, de hahdah it is tuh succeed.”

“So you’re saying, since I’m not rich anymore, and I’m Agnostic, that it’s harder for me to make it.”

“Ya don’ know de half of it, homme.”

“No? Well why don’t you _tell_ me half of it, ‘homme’?”

Gambit raised an eyebrow at him. “Ah coul’ tell ya wha’ it’s lahke growin’ up an orphan, bein’ adopted by a single, poor, black woman, too ol’ tuh have children of huh own, so she took in children off da streets o’ N’Orleans. How she taught us how tuh get by. How every day, she was reminded o’ her race, o’ de fac’ dat she was a woman. Ah coul’ tell ya how hahd life was. But Ah’ve only tasted de struggle. Ah was fightin’ fo’ meals when Ah was young enough, Ah shoulda been in elementary school, ‘cept no one was around tuh enroll meh. But on account’a meh bein’ white, people ten’ tuh trust meh. Dey don’ question mah motivations. Pickin’ pockets was much easier fo’ me dan it was fo’ mah black brothahs an’ sistahs. Dey was watched everywhere dey go. If Ah’d’a been less selfish, Ah’d’a given dem paht o’ mah money, because it was so much easier fo’ me tuh get. But Ah was young, an’ foolish, an’ Ah t’ought dey jus’ lacked de talent.”

Johnny sat in silence for a long moment, watching Gambit work the tattoo gun up his bicep. His upper arm hurt much more than his lower arm, but he was determined not to be a wuss about it. “...I didn’t know, dude. I’m sorry.”

Those burning-coal red eyes met his for a hot second, before they were shaded once again by his eyelashes. “Tha’s because de people in positions o’ priv’lege nevah know how much priv’lege dey have.”

“I’m not racist though.”

“Nevah said ya were. Ah’m no’ racist, eithah. Bu’ because o’ de way America works, you an’ Ah, an’ every othah white person in America, benefits from de system o’ oppression dat is racism. We get an advantage simply by bein’ bohn white.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “That’s so stupid! We all bleed the same color. Why are people still racist?”

“It’s no’ tha’ _people_ ahre racist. It’s dat it permeates culture so much dat people make assumptions based on race, whethah dey ahre aware o’ it or not. Fo’ example. If ya were lookin’ fo’ a place tuh sit, an’ de only available places were next tuh a white man, o’ nex’ tuh a black man, who would ya sit nex’ tuh?” He paused, but continued as soon as Johnny opened his mouth to answer. “-The white man, no question. Because culture has taught ya dat de black man means trouble. But if ya study crahme statistics, white men ahre _far_ more likely not only tuh _commit_ crimes, but to get _away_ wit’ dose crimes. Especially if dat white man is rich.”

Johnny was still processing this when Gambit went on, “T’ink of all de serial killers ya can. Mafia. ‘ow many Mafia movies have ya seen, Johnny? Who is always _in_ de Mafia?”

“White people. ..Holy shit.”

“See, culture _lies_ tuh ya. Don’ believe everyt’ing ya t’ink. Mos’ of it’s no’ true.”

Johnny was still digesting this by the time Gambit finished tattooing his left arm and got out the shading tools. “...How do you know so much about this?”

“Because Ah was raised by a single black woman in de sout’. Because Ah pay attention. Get tuh know people. Learn deir stories.”

“Isn’t that kinda boring though? Sitting around listening to peop-OW!”

“It’s not boring, homme. ‘specially if ya _care_ abou’ de person you’re listenin’ to.”

Well, that struck an uncomfortable chord. The world felt like it was tilting when he looked at Gambit again. Like things were sliding around and clicking into places they hadn’t fit before. He was getting that uncomfortable feeling he always gets when he’s about to realize something. He chased the feeling away by saying, “So you’ve gotten to know a lot of people, huh?”

“Everyone’s got a story, homme,” Gambit answered without looking up.

“Yeah but you said _care.”_

“Wha’ if Ah care abou’ people in general?”

“Bullshit. Nobody’s _that_ philanthropic.”

“Wha’ abou’ Mothah Theresa?”

“You’re calling yourself Mother Theresa?” Johnny inquired with a raised eyebrow.

“Ah’m no Muthah Theresa. Bu’ tha’ doesn’ mean Ah don’ care.”

“So you care about _me_ then?” Johnny asked before he knew what words were coming out of his mouth.

Gambit answered, again, without looking. “..Ah care abou’ people in general.”

“Right, yeah, you said that, but do you care about _me?”_

Gambit was quiet for a moment. “Wha’ does it mattah, homme? Ah said Ah care abou’ people. Ya ahre a person. Doesn’ mean you’re special.”

“Aw, c’mon. You’re gonna be tattooing me for the next, like, two hours. I’ve gotta be at least a _little_ special.”

“An hour an’ fifteen minutes, tops. An’ gettin’ a tattoo doesn’ make ya special.”

Johnny didn’t understand why that struck him so hard. He didn’t understand why the ache in his chest hurt so much more than the shading tool working its way up his bicep. “So, what, I matter just as much as the hobo on the street?”

“Johnny, Ah used tuh be dat hobo on de street. Don’ pass judgment on people ya don’ know.”

“What about people I _do_ know?” Johnny said, just to be difficult.

Gambit gave him a flat, long-suffering look. It was such a familiar look; he’d gotten it so many times from so many different people. The ache in his chest tightened.

“..Don’ judge people in general.”

Johnny found himself smiling. “Who’s gonna stop me?”

“Ah may no’ believe in many t’ings, homme. Ah been aroun’ long enough tuh know dere ain’t any gods up dere watchin’ us, an’ if dere are, dey don’ care. But if dere is one t’ing Ah know, it’s wha’ goes aroun’ comes aroun’. If ya want tuh call that karma, fahne. But your actions will follow ya. Be careful wha’ ya put out dere.”

Johnny smirked. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you _care.”_

“Ah’m jus’ warnin’ ya, homme.”

“Yeah. ‘Cause you _care. You_ care what happens to me.”

Gambit’s face remained impassive. “Ya ahre temptin’ fate, homme.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in stuff.”

“It’s a figuh o’ speech.”

“Suuure it is.”

Gambit sighed and switched tools. He started coloring in the flames.

“See? I was right. You _do_ care.”

“Jus’ because someone is silent, doesn’ mean you’re right.”

Johnny had no comeback for that. Gambit finished his left arm and treated it, then moved over to start on his right arm. He watched Gambit trace the cool, damp marker up his forearm, curling and unfurling flame patterns higher and higher up his arm.

“So what happened? Why’d you have to cancel?”

Gambit was quiet for so long, Johnny didn’t think he was gonna answer. But then- “Cancel what, homme?”

“The movie! That stupid-ass princess movie you wanted me to see.”

Gambit sighed quietly and kept working.

“You know,” Johnny pried, “the rom-com where the princess-who’s-not-a-princess wants to get married? The one we were gonna watch Tuesday?”

“...Ah got busy, homme.”

“What? Lots of tattoo requests? You suddenly popular?”

“Ah _always_ been popular, homme.”

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. All right.” Uncomfortable silence filled the room after that, filled in only by the sad ballad of Guns ‘n Roses on the radio. They got through an entire verse and half of a refrain before Johnny thought of something else to say. “So you get a lot of requests?”

“Always have.”

“Cool, cool…. What kinda stuff do you usually draw? Or, y’know. Tattoo.”

Gambit took his sweet time answering again. “All kindsa stuff, homme. Ya seen mah book ou’ front.”

“That’s all you?!”

“Tha’s all meh,” Gambit confirmed.

“Holy shit. Dude. You are like. _Seriously_ awesome!”

“Ah know. Tha’s why Ah get so many requests.” Gambit’s eyes twinkled with just the slightest hint of amusement.

Johnny latched onto the topic like a dog with a juicy steakbone. “Yeah? What kinda requests do you usually get?”

Gambit shrugged. “All kinds. Color, black and white. Aneh size. All pahts o’ de body.”

“Whoa. So you’ve like. Tattooed… boobs?”

Gambit raised an eyebrow. “Ah tattooed _yours.”_

Johnny rolled his eyes. “Okay, _yeah,_ but that’s not really a _boob.”_

Gambit shrugged. “Same t’ing.”

“No it’s not.”

“Same paht o’ de body.”

“Yeah but, boobs are _different_. They.. stick out more.” His cheeks colored slightly. “They’re… bouncier.”

“True,” Gambit said neutrally.

“And they’re.. rounder. Babies like. _Feed_ off of them.”

“Also true,” Gambit granted, “But dey ahre still de same paht o’ de body.”

“Yeah but come on. They’re different. I mean. Men don’t have to wear bras.”

“Some do.”

“What?! -Okay, really fat guys maybe _should_ , but- OW!”

“Transgender men exist, Johnny.”

“Okay, okay, but they aren’t really me-OW!!”

Gambit was glaring at him. “Transgender men are men, and transgender women are women. Some o’ dem may have diff’rent pahts, but dat doesn’ make dem any less men or women. Dere ahre men ou’ dere who ‘ave had deir manhood damaged; dat don’ make dem automatically female. Dere ahre women ou’ dere who ‘ave had deir womenhood damaged, or even surgically removed. Dat don’ make dem any less women. Women wit’ breast cancer ‘ave deir breasts removed. Women wit’ cervical cancer sometahmes ‘ave to ‘ave deir entire reproductive systems removed in order to stay alive. Dat doesn’ make dem stop identifyin’ as women. No’ all women ‘ave periods. Some men do. No’ all women ‘ave breasts. Some men do. Ya can’ judge someone’s gendah by deir pahts. An’ deir pahts are deir business, unless ya ahre deir doctah, or deir lovah.”

“...So you’ve been with a transgender guy? -OW!”

“None’a your business, an’ it wouldn’ mattah whethah Ah ‘ave or not. Tha’ doesn’ make de identities o’ transgender people aneh less valid.”

“Okay! Jeez!”

“Jus’ goes tuh show how priv’leged ya ahre. Ya don’ know wha’ it’s like.”

“..What, are _you_ transgender?”

“Ah tol’ ya Ah’m not.”

“You said you aren’t a trans _man._ That doesn’t mean you’re not a trans _woman.”_

Gambit met Johnny’s eyes. Something light, like hope, or faith, flickered there for the briefest moment before he returned to his work. “...Ah’m not a trans woman,” he said with a slight smile to his voice.

“You kinda dress like one.”

All the faith immediately left Gambit’s eyes. His mouth fell into an unamused line. “Ah dress _comfahtably,_ thank you.”

Johnny snorted. “Yeah. ‘Cause skintight leggings are so comfy. And go-go boots? Really? Dude you wear three-inch heels on a regular basis. As though you need to be _taller._ ”

“Dey’re not go-go boots. Dey’re jus’ boots. An’ Ah can be as tall as Ah wan’, thank you.”

“Yeah, sure, silver heeled knee-high boots _aren’t_ go-go boots. -OW!”

“Dey’re not. Dey’re jus’ boots. An’ how are _your_ skinny jeans dat diff’rent from _mah_ leggin’s?”

“Uh, because they’re _jeans?”_

“Don’ mean nuthin’ tuh me, homme. Dey both show off de wearer’s legs.”

“Yeah but. My crotch is _not_ as obvious as yours.”

Gambit raised an eyebrow dangerously. His eyes narrowed. “Maybeh Ah’m jus’ more well-endowed.”

“Ha! I highly doubt that.”

“We’re both wearin’ tight pants, homme. If mahn looks biggah…”

“It’s the pants.”

Gambit’s mouth curled up on one side. “Ya were lookin’.”

“Was not!”

“Den how do you _know?”_

“It’s kind of hard to miss!”

“Not if ya don’ look.”

“I wasn’t looking!!”

“But ya saw it.”

“Well yeah! Because your pants are like, painted on!”

“So ahre yours.”

“So _you_ were looking!”

“So were _you.”_

“Yeah but so were _you!”_

“Ya admit it. Ya _were_ lookin’.”

Johnny spluttered. “ _You_ admitted it! _You_ were looking!”

“Nevah said Ah wasn’.”

“What, so you were checking me out?!”

“Were _you_ checking _me_ ou’?”

“NO!”

Gambit’s mouth curled up on one side. “Mmhmm,” he agreed doubtfully.

“I WASN’T!”

“Mmhmm,” he doubted again.

“SHUT YOUR FUCK! I WASN’T!”

“Your face is reddah den your arm, homme.”

Johnny spluttered again. “YEAH! ‘CAUSE A GUY IN SKINTIGHT PANTS IS CALLING ME GAY!”

“Ah nevah called ya gay. Ah merely pointed ou’ tha’ ya noticed mah skintight pants.”

“THEY’RE PRETTY UNAVOIDABLE!”

“Dey’re _pretty,_ ya say..?” Gambit smirked.

“FUCK YOU! I SAID PRETTY _UNAVOIDABLE!”_

“So ya t’ink Ah’m pretty, homme?” He batted his eyelashes.

“FUCKING-! FUCK YOU! NO!”

“Ya sure ahre sayin’ ‘fuck’ a lot…”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS _THAT_ SUPPOSED TO MEAN?”

“Nothing~”

“ARE YOU CALLING ME _GAY?”_

“Nevah said Ah was.”

“I AM _NOT! GAY!”_

“Neithah am Ah. We been t’rough dis, homme. Ya don’ have tuh be gay tuh be attracted tuh men.”

“BUT I’M NOT!”

“Whatevah ya say, homme.”  
“SHUT YOUR FUCK! I’M NOT GAY!!”

“Relax, homme. It’s gonna hurt more if ya don’ relax.”

Johnny blushed scarlet. He could think of several instances involving that same sentence. It was extremely hard to relax.

Gambit’s amusement slowly faded. His eyes stopped sparkling. His mouth re-settled into that flat, grim line. “Sorry, homme.”

“For what?” Johnny ground out.

“Teasin’ ya. Ah didn’ mean nuthin’ by it.”

Heavy weight settled in his chest. His own face fell. “Yeah whatever. At least I don’t wear fuckin’ hot pink shirts. That’s like, practically _begging_ for people to ask if you’re a homo.”

“Firs’ of all, dat phrase is offensive. An’ _second_ of all, maybeh Ah wan’ people tuh question gendah an’ sexuality.”

“Oo no, I hurt your precious feelings.”

Gambit jabbed him with the needle. “It’s no’ abou’ me. It’s abou’ systems of oppression dat need tuh be broken down. It’s no’ shameful tuh be feminine, it’s no’ shameful tuh be anythin’ besides heterosexual, an’ it’s no’ shameful tuh question dese t’ings abou’ yourself.”

“Well, maybe I have nothing tuh question.”

“You have all sorts of t’ings tuh question, homme,” Gambit said quietly. “Ya jus’ don’ know dem yet.”

“Yeah? And who made you the expert on me?”

“No one did, homme. _You’re_ de expert on ya. Bu’ if ya ahre so defensive every time someone even vaguely alludes ta your sexuality, maybeh dat means dey ahre pokin’ at an insecurity. Maybeh dere is somet’in’ dere dat you ahre afraid tuh t’ink abou’.”

“Pff. Not me. I am a hundred percent straight. -Or. Okay. At _least_ ninety-eight.”

“Wha’ abou’ dat two percent, homme?”

Something odd fluttered through Johnny’s stomach up through his chest; his cheeks warmed. “I already told you! Young Harrison Ford. That’s it.”

“Jus’ keep tellin’ yourself tha, homme.” Gambit finished coloring Johnny’s right arm and dressed it. Johnny was stunned that the time had flown so quickly.

“So.. I guess that’s it then, huh.”

“That’s what, homme?” Gambit asked, back turned.

“That’s… You’re done. I have all my tattoos now.”

Gambit shrugged one shoulder and kept wiping off his tattoo gun. “If dat’s all de tattoos ya wanted.”

Johnny’s shoulders slumped. “..Yeah.”

“Den Ah guess Ah’ll be seein’ ya.”

“Aren’t you even gonna say good-bye?”

Gambit didn’t respond for a moment. “Ya seem tuh think dere is a _reason_ tuh say good-bye.”

That felt like a punch to his ribs. “Well… _yeah._ I thought we were… I dunno. -Friends.”

“Ah gave ya a tattoo, Johnny. Dat’s all dis evah was.”

“....Oh.”

Johnny stood there for a long moment, watching Gambit clean off his tools, his back still turned to him. He gave Johnny the slightest glance over his shoulder before remarking absently, “Ya can go now, homme.”

“...Sure. Yeah.” The world seemed to be falling down around him. “Seeya.”

Gambit didn’t answer.

“...Bye.” Johnny closed the door behind him. He paid Jubilee at the front desk. She seemed surprised about something.

“Didn’t it go well?”

Johnny shrugged a shoulder and paid the amount she said he owed.

Jubilee frowned. “Did he say something?”

“Not much.”

Jubilee handed him his change. “Are you gonna get another one?”

Johnny shrugged again and pocketed his change. Out of the corner of his eye, after he opened the door to walk out, he saw Jubilee uncross her legs, stand up, and walk down the L-shaped hallway. He didn’t bother questioning it. It was probably none of his business.


	6. Chapter 6

Johnny spent a day at home recuperating. It hurt whenever his arms touched anything.

Everything hurt, really. He couldn’t explain it. Food hurt, eating hurt. Using his cell phone hurt. Looking at his tattoos hurt. Thinking about pretty much anything hurt. Looking at his ‘recently viewed’ on Netflix hurt. Texting Peter to tell him he was fine hurt.

He woke up the next morning feeling hung over, despite not having touched a drop of alcohol recently. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to get out of bed. But he either had to call in sick again, or go to work today, and even though he didn’t want to do anything, the thought of sitting on his couch for another day and watching painful things on Netflix was just too painful.

He showed up to work late and gave Peter a lackluster greeting.

Peter followed him around, asking him a bunch of questions he didn’t want to answer.

Once it was clear Johnny wanted to be alone, Peter regretfully took his position at the cash register and made nice to the customers.

It was probably around noon. Johnny’s still-empty stomach growled, but Johnny hadn’t packed a lunch because nothing looked good.

_Tinkle-jangle_

In came another customer.

Johnny didn’t bother to look. If they really needed help, they’d tap him on the shoulder or something. He kept slowly pushing petals and dirt across the floor with the decrepit old push-broom. Piece of shit really needed to be replaced.

“Ah’m lookin’ fo’ some flowahs,” said a familiar voice.

Johnny froze.

The voice came closer. “Can ya help meh?”

 _The universe must hate me._ Johnny turned around and pasted a fake-ass smile on his face. “What kind of flowers are you looking for?”

Gambit took a step closer. His red eyes searched Johnny’s face. “Ah’m lookin’ fo’ a bouquet dat says, ‘Ah’m sorreh. Ah was a jerk, an’ Ah led ya on, because Ah’ve been hurt in de pas’ and got out of a bad relationship not too long ago. Because Ah wasn’ ready tuh deal wit’ mah own feelin’s, an’ as soon as Ah realized how Ah felt about you, Ah shut ya out. An’ Ah’m sorreh. Ah shouldn’ ‘ave done tha’. An’ Ah wanna make it up to ya, maybeh by gettin’ togethah an’ watchin’ one o’ dose awful comedies ya love so much, because Ah wanna get tuh know ya, an’ Ah’m still scared, but Ah t’ink ya migh’ be worth it?’”

Johnny stared at him. “That’s an awful lot for a bouquet of flowers,” he deadpanned. “Maybe you wanna add a note?”

“Ah’m sorreh,” Gambit said again, stepping closer and cupping Johnny’s face gently between his hands.

“We have… bouquets for that…” Johnny near-whispered, eyes low on Gambit’s face.

Gambit stroked his thumbs gently across Johnny’s cheekbones. “Ah don’ wan’ flowahs,” he admitted. “Ah jus’ wan’ you.” He brought his mouth closer.

Their lips connected.

The broom Johnny was holding clattered to the floor.

He threw his arms around Gambit’s neck and pressed him close, kissing him with all the emotions he hadn’t realized he’d been holding back until that moment. Gambit’s arms tightened around Johnny’s waist and he kissed back just as earnestly. Johnny felt like he was drowning, he was floating, he was flying. Everything was too much and not enough at the same time; all he knew was he needed Gambit _closer._ Lucky for him, Gambit seemed to feel the same. They pressed their torsos flush together, clung to each other’s backs, drank from each other’s lips as they poured out their emotions in a long, heartfelt kiss.

Someone cleared their throat loudly.

Abruptly, that sound cut through the heady haze, and Johnny realized he was full-on making out with Gambit in the middle of a florist shop. He froze, eyes wide, and stopped kissing him.

Gambit shielded Johnny protectively with his body and cast a warning glance towards whoever cleared their throat.

Johnny had no idea who it was, though, because his eyes were still locked on Gambit. “So uh…” He cleared his throat. “That explains a lot.”

Gambit smiled softly at him. “Ahre ya free tonight?”

“Yeah,” Johnny answered dreamily, still dazed.

Gambit’s smile grew. “Ah’ll let ya know when mah shift is ovah.” He gently pulled Johnny into a hug, tucking his nose against Johnny’s neck. His lips brushed against Johnny’s cheek when he pulled back and loosened his grip. “Ah’ll see ya tonight.”

“Yeah,” Johnny whispered.

*

He was still staring at the door, where Gambit had exited, when Peter sidled up to him and bumped shoulders. “Sooo... That was ‘nobody’ huh?” He raised his eyebrows.

Johnny rolled his eyes and shoved Peter’s shoulder away. “Shut up.” He couldn’t stop smiling.

“I didn’t know you swung that way.” His eyes glinted behind his nerdy glasses. “That was quite the kiss.”

Johnny grinned. “Shut up!” He shoved Peter harder.

“I thought we were gonna have to shield some children’s eyes.”

“Shut your fuck!”

“You were getting _really_ into it!”

“Peter, I swear, I’m gonna-!”

Peter grinned. “Johnny’s got a boyfriend~~”

“SHUT UP!” Johnny lunged at Peter and started tickling his sides. Peter squawked and squirmed and tried to tickle back, but his movements were too jerky and he kept missing. He called Johnny about five different variations of ‘jerk’ before his begs to stop were heard.

Johnny didn’t stop smiling for the rest of his shift.

***

“Okay, you win,” Johnny acquiesced, cheek resting warmly against Gambit’s shoulder. The room was dark except for the gentle glow of the television screen. They were sitting on a comfy old couch, sunk down in the middle, sharing an old quilt that smelled vaguely of cedar. “-She’s not a princess, and it’s not about marriage.”

“Ah _tol’_ ya, mon amour.”

Johnny smiled, rolled his eyes, and snuggled a bit closer. Gambit’s arm tightened around him automatically. Johnny loved those fingers squeezing his upper arm. “It’s still cheesy though.”

“Ya liked it though.” It was a half-question.

Johnny’s smile spread. “Of course I liked it.”

Gambit smiled and pecked the corner of Johnny’s mouth. Johnny turned the slightest bit, so their lips brushed together when Gambit tried to pull away. The warmth in Gambit’s eyes softened; he tilted his head and pressed a gentle kiss against Johnny’s mouth. Johnny kissed him like he’d been dying to the whole movie.

Gambit tasted like Chinese food. “..Ya still up fo’ anothah one?”

“Course I am.” Johnny pecked Gambit’s chin. “Your turn to pick.”

“Hmmm.” Gambit scrolled through the options. “How ‘bout dis one? Ah hear it’s a classic.”

Johnny snuggled against Gambit’s shoulder, grinning. “..Sure. I _guess_ I could sit through that.”

Gambit clicked a button on the remote. _The Mask_ started playing.

“...By de way,” Gambit said over the introductory music, “De name is Remy. Remy LeBeau.” He sent a warm smile towards the top of Johnny’s head. “‘Gambit’ is jus’ mah stage name.”

“Remy,” Johnny said softly. “I like it.”

“An’ Ah lahke hearin’ ya say it..” He nuzzled the top of Johnny’s forehead.

“Good. ‘Cause I’m gonna be saying it a _lot.”_

That warm hot-chocolate chuckle melted Johnny straight to his core. “Ah sure hope so.”


End file.
